After Waking to Darkness
by heisey
Summary: Impressions, from Christie's POV, of events that might have happened while Jim was in the hospital, after waking to darkness.


**After Waking to Darkness**

"Christie, why is it so dark in here?"

I looked around the brightly-lit hospital room. My husband, who had been shot in the head three days ago, had just awakened. I glanced over at Dr. Carpenter, but his worried expression offered no reassurance. A moment ago, he had passed a light in front of Jimmy's eyes to check his pupils, but Jimmy didn't seem to see it. And he didn't answer when the doctor asked how many fingers he was holding up. Now Jimmy was asking why the room was dark. For three days, I had been waiting for the moment when Jimmy would wake up, but now my relief was overshadowed by dread. Many possibilities had filled my mind while I was waiting, but nothing like this.

"Jimmy, I . . ." The words caught in my throat. I didn't want to speak. Saying the words would make it real.

"Christie . . . answer me . . . please." Jimmy's voice was weak, barely more than a raspy whisper, and he spoke haltingly, as if he was having difficulty finding the words he wanted.

I reached out and took Jimmy's hand. I couldn't escape the feeling that this was one of those moments which divide time, forever, into "before" and "after." I took a deep breath, trying to slow my pounding heart.

"The room . . . isn't dark, Jimmy. The lights are on, and . . . and it's 2:30 in the afternoon."

Looking resigned, he nodded his head, as if he had already known the answer before I spoke.

I turned toward Dr. Carpenter, but before I could speak, he took an instrument from the pocket of his lab coat and spoke to Jimmy. "Detective, I'm going to take a look at the inside of your eyes. Just look straight ahead, and try not to blink." He raised the head of the bed, then leaned over and peered into each of Jimmy's eyes. He straightened up, looking concerned. "I'm not sure what the problem is. I want a neuro-ophthalmologist to see you as soon as possible."

I followed the doctor out of the room. As he walked toward the nurses' station, I asked, "What aren't you telling us?"

"It's too soon to say what's causing your husband's vision loss. All I can tell you is that he has sustained significant head trauma, which has affected his eyesight in some way. A neuro-ophthalmologist should be able to tell us more."

I nodded and turned to walk back to Jimmy's room, taking a deep breath and trying to control my swirling emotions. When I walked back into the room, he was turning his head from side to side and scanning the room with his eyes, frantically trying to find something, anything he could see.

"Christie?" he asked, the slight tremor in his voice betraying his anxiety.

"Yes, Jimmy, I'm here."

"Why can't I see?"

"I don't know. The doctor didn't really tell me anything. He says it's too early to tell, and we need to find out what the eye specialist has to say."

Jimmy nodded, then rested his chin on his hands, as he often did when thinking. He reached up to touch the bandage circling his head and asked, "What . . . happened?"

"You don't remember?"

He thought for a moment before answering. "I remember . . . leaving the squad."

"I don't know all the details, but there was a bank robbery. The robber killed several cops. You shot and killed the robber, and he shot you. People are saying you're a hero, Jimmy."

"Why can't I remember?"

"I don't know, but you were shot in the head, and you had a concussion from hitting your head when you fell. That could explain it."

"Oh."

Not knowing what else to say, I pulled a chair next to the bed, sat down, and took Jimmy's hand in both of mine. Jimmy's voice interrupted my efforts to make sense of what was happening.

"How long?"

"Sorry, sweetie, what?"

"How long since . . .?"

"Three days."

"I was . . . out for three days?"

"The doctors gave you drugs to put you into a coma. They said it was to reduce the swelling and pressure inside your head. We didn't know if you'd ever wake up, or even survive. I was so afraid I was going to lose you." Suddenly, I couldn't hold back my tears. I thought I was crying silently, but somehow Jimmy knew.

"Christie. . . ," he said and reached out to me. I lowered the side rail on the bed and leaned over to kiss him. He put his arms around me. I sat on the side of the bed and put my head on his chest.

"I'm sorry, Jimmy. You don't need me falling apart on you."

"Hey, it's okay." Jimmy reached up and stroked my hair, but I couldn't help thinking that things might not be okay, ever again. Would Jimmy see again? If not, would he -- would we -- be able to deal with it? I couldn't imagine how. As Jimmy and I held each other, I realized for the first time how exhausted the past three days had left me. I'd heard people say they were tired "to the bone," and now I understood what they meant.

An unfamiliar voice spoke. "Detective Dunbar? Mrs. Dunbar? I'm Dr. Levy."

I looked up to see a petite woman walking briskly into the room. She exuded competence, and my spirits rose a little, in spite of my anxiety. She spoke to Jimmy in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Dr. Carpenter tells me you sustained a gunshot wound to the head and you're now experiencing some vision loss."

He nodded, then asked, "What's happening? Why can't I see?"

"That's what I'm here to find out," Dr Levy replied reassuringly. "First, I'm going to pass a light in front of your eyes. Tell me when you see something."

She took a penlight, clicked it on, and moved it across Jimmy's face. He shook his head, grimacing. "Nothing."

"OK, let's take a look. Look straight ahead, and don't blink." She pulled out an instrument and looked into Jimmy's eyes. When she finished, she looked concerned.

"Doctor?" I asked.

"There are several possible causes of your husband's vision loss. I'll need to do more tests to be certain."

"But it's temporary, right?" Jimmy asked.

"It may be. I'll order an MRI, which may give us more information about what is going on. Only time will tell if there is going to be any improvement."

* * *

I arrived at the hospital in the morning, to find Jimmy sitting on the side of his bed. He had been moved from the Intensive Care Unit the afternoon before. It was two days since he had awakened. He was more alert and his headache had subsided, but he still couldn't see. The MRI had been inconclusive, but it was possible Jimmy's optic nerves had been damaged. All we could do was wait for his eyesight to return -- or not.

"Good morning," I said. "What's going on?"

"Hey, Christie," Jimmy responded.

The young woman standing next to Jimmy turned and introduced herself. "I'm Pam Tamborelli from Physical Therapy."

Before she could continue, Jimmy spoke up, "Don't believe a word of it, she's really a disciple of the Marquis de Sade."

"As I've already explained, Detective," she responded, "the sooner we get you up and out of bed, the sooner you'll regain your strength, and the sooner you can get out of here. We're done for this morning. But I'll be back this afternoon, when you're going to get out of bed and stand up."

Jimmy groaned. "I can't wait. It'll be the highlight of my day."

As Pam left, an aide came to the door. "Detective, you have a visitor."

"Who is it?" Jimmy asked.

"I don't know."

"I'll go see who it is," I said.

At the nurses' station, I was pleasantly surprised to see Jimmy's partner, Terry. He had been at the hospital the day Jimmy was shot, and we had spoken on the phone daily since then, but this was the first time he'd been able to visit, as I was the only visitor allowed while Jimmy was in the ICU.

"Christie, how are you holding up?" he asked, giving me a hug.

"Better, thanks," I replied. "What about you?"

"I'm okay, just worried about Jimmy."

"I know."

"Has there been any change -- I mean, with his eyes?"

"Not so far."

Terry shifted uneasily, looking down as if he didn't want to meet my eyes. "Has he remembered yet -- what happened at the bank?"

"No, but I'm sure he'll ask you about it. Shall we go see him?"

"Uh, yeah, sure. . . ."

As we walked down the hall to Jimmy's room, I was puzzled. Terry seemed uncharacteristically nervous. "Is something wrong, Terry?" I asked.

"No, just thinking about what happened."

Of course, I thought, it had to be traumatic for Terry, seeing Jimmy and the other cops get shot. And he probably had "survivor's guilt," since he had come through uninjured.

When we arrived at Jimmy's room, I told him his visitor was Terry and was rewarded with a smile. Terry sat in the chair next to the bed and asked Jimmy how he was. Jimmy responded, "I'd be a lot better if I hadn't just been tortured by a sadist claiming to be a physical therapist. How are you?"

"I'm fine, Jimmy. I walked away without a scratch." Terry looked down again, as he'd done when talking with me.

"That's good."

"Can I ask what the doctors are saying . . . about your eyes?"

"Not much. All they will tell us is either my sight will come back, or it won't. It's just a matter of time."

Jimmy paused, took a deep breath, and asked, "What happened, Terry –- when I got shot?"

Terry spoke rapidly, as if he was under pressure to get the words out. "It was hell, Jimmy. The perp had an assault rifle. He was firing at anything that moved. He killed three cops, one of them was right next to me. I was pinned down, couldn't make a move. You took a couple of shots at him, but he got a shot off before you got him. You saved my life, and a lot of other people's."

"I was just doing my job. You would have done the same."

Terry didn't answer, and a look I couldn't interpret flickered across his face. At that moment, Dr. Levy arrived for her morning rounds. Jimmy thanked Terry for coming, and Terry left, saying he'd visit again. But I was puzzled. I'd known Terry for three years, and something wasn't right. Was he telling Jimmy the whole story about what happened at the bank?

* * *

I walked into Jimmy's room just as Pam was leaving. "We had a good session today," she reported. "He walked to the end of the hall and back. That's excellent progress for only three days of therapy."

"That's good to hear, thanks."

"Yeah, but she didn't tell you about the whip," Jimmy quipped. We all laughed, but after Pam left, he turned serious. He rested his chin on his hands, thinking, then he turned toward me.

"Christie, what are you doing here?"

"What do you mean -- what am I doing here?"

"Before I got shot, you said our marriage was over. So what are you doing here?"

The question took me by surprise. It wasn't like Jimmy to ask such a question, and I knew he must have been brooding about it for some time. I looked at him in search of some clue that would tell me what he was thinking and feeling, but his expression revealed nothing. He had always been hard to read. Now that he couldn't see other people's expressions, he seemed even more intent on not letting his face betray his emotions. For an instant, I felt guilty for trying to read his face when he couldn't do the same.

I wasn't sure how to answer him. Jimmy was right. I'd thought our marriage was over, after he admitted that he'd had an affair with a woman he met on the job. He swore it had never happened before and would never happen again, but I wasn't sure I could believe him. He had lied to me so easily and glibly during the three-month affair, I knew I could never trust him again. I could forgive many things, but not this kind of betrayal. Without trust, what future did our marriage have? When I told Jimmy these things, the night before he was shot, I truly believed our marriage was over. So why was I here?

"Jimmy, I . . . that night -- the night before you were shot -- I did believe our marriage was over. But I had a lot of time to think during those three days, waiting to find out if you would live, if you would ever wake up. I thought about what life would be like without you -- if you were dead or existing in a coma in some nursing home. And I realized I'd rather spend my life with you than without you."

"You sure about that?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, more sharply than I'd intended.

"You sure you want to be married to a blind man?"

"The doctors haven't said . . . you can't . . . give up hope," I stammered.

"It's been a week, and it's not getting any better. The longer it goes on, the less chance there is. You know that."

"I . . . haven't wanted to think about it."

"Well, maybe you should."

I had been doing my best to avoid thinking about the possibility he wouldn't be able to see again, and now he was forcing me to confront it. I knew he was right -- with each day that passed without any sign of his sight returning, the chances of his seeing again decreased. But I couldn't make my mind grasp the idea of Jimmy being blind. On the few occasions when I had allowed myself to consider the possibility, it was too overwhelming to contemplate. Without sight, even the simplest tasks of everyday life seemed impossible. I knew there had to be ways of doing things without sight, but how would Jimmy handle having to learn them? Jimmy had always been so self-sufficient and independent. Now he was going to have to learn to accept help. I wasn't sure he could do that. And what would he do with the rest of his life? Knowing Jimmy as I did, I knew he wouldn't just take his pension and retire. Would he be able to work and, if so, what kind of work could he do? Being a cop was out of the question, and this might be the hardest thing for Jimmy to accept, because his whole idea of himself revolved around being a cop. If he wasn't a cop, who was he? Finding the answer to that question might be the most difficult of all. And I couldn't even imagine how blindness might change him, or how those changes would affect our marriage.

* * *

When I walked into the room, Jimmy was standing at the window, with his back to me, as if he was looking out. I wondered what he was doing there but decided not to ask.

"Hey, Jimmy. Big day tomorrow -- you're going home."

"Yeah," he responded, without turning toward me.

"You don't seem very happy about it."

"It doesn't matter where I am. It's all the same to me."

My heart ached, and I blinked back tears. I knew there was nothing I could say to make things right, or even make things easier for him. Two days before, we'd met with the medical team to assess Jimmy's progress and plan for his discharge from the hospital. Two weeks after the shooting, there had been no improvement in his eyesight. Dr. Levy wouldn't completely rule out the possibility some vision would return, but she left no doubt that she believed it wasn't going to happen. Most of our discussions related to the rehabilitation and training Jimmy would need to learn how to live without sight. I could hardly bear to hear about "orientation and mobility training" and "activities of daily living," but Jimmy seemed uncharacteristically resigned, almost apathetic. Now he seemed indifferent to the prospect of going home.

I went over to him and put my hand on his shoulder, trying to establish a connection. "Jimmy? Are you okay?"

He turned toward me. "I remember what happened when I got shot."

"That's good, that you can remember."

"No, it's not."

"Why?"

"Terry . . . it didn't happen the way he claimed. He had a shot at the perp, but he froze, and I had to take him out. And here I am," he said, pointing to his eyes.

"Oh, my God . . . What are you going to do?"

He shook his head. "I don't know."


End file.
